


Shell

by TheCinematicRevealThatBatmanIsDead



Series: Her Wounded Eyes [2]
Category: Metroid Series
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Other M is semi-canon, Past Abuse, but differently, like it happened, which i will elaborate on in another story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 02:42:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12355794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCinematicRevealThatBatmanIsDead/pseuds/TheCinematicRevealThatBatmanIsDead
Summary: "I need to say this. I know it's bad, but it's in me, and I need it out."





	Shell

_ “I was thinking, Do those scars cover the whole of you, like the stars and the moons on your dress? I thought that would be pretty too, and I ask you right here please to agree with me that a scar is never ugly. That is what the scar makers want us to think. But you and I, we must make an agreement to defy them. We must see all scars as beauty. Okay? This will be our secret. Because take it from me, a scar does not form on the dying. A scar means, I survived.”  _

_ - _ Chris Cleave _ , Little Bee _

* * *

 

I was twelve when I first started training to use the morph ball. There was a lot of stretching and contortion training involved in the process: lower back, shoulders, neck, hamstrings. Even with the Chozo’s genetic implants that gave me better stamina and more efficient muscle regrowth, the exercises hurt like hell when I first started. It actually helped to visualize the process of tissue being torn away and replaced with stronger tissue, again and again, whittling away the weakness in me to create a statue of strength. A defender. 

 

I don’t talk about my past to strangers. Period. I’ve made exceptions for legal reasons, specifically for an IBHC-mandated psychological evaluation, but otherwise, personal stuff remains personal. Even with close friends, the precious few I still have, I don’t give that information out freely. 

I think Commander Malkovich was the first person I told, and I cried like a child for the first time in years. Tactless and pushy though Adam could be, he recognized what a big deal that was, and I think it embarrassed him in that moment. After that, well...I’ll say this: Adam paints in broad strokes. To him, the universe can be divided into good and evil, love and hate, strength and weakness. I think that motivates him, and part of what makes him such a good leader is the way he conducts that simplicity into you. He can cut through all of the overwhelming chaos and uncertainty on the battlefield with just a few words, and suddenly you see what he sees: the objective, and the straight line between it and you. It’s a simple world where the only direction is forward and the only question to be answered is “what’s next?” 

The problems start popping up when he’s outside of combat. I don’t know exactly how to say this but...it’s not that he doesn’t understand nuance, it’s that he doesn’t look for it. When I joined up, he saw a sixteen-year-old girl with a chip on her shoulder. When he saw me in combat for the first time, he saw what everyone else saw: Samus Aran, the nuclear scalpel. And when I cried in front of him, he saw a child who put on a facade of competence and security that belied a screaming toxic hotbed of trauma bubbling under the surface, waiting to rip me apart. Weakness. Simple structural weakness. That was when the mutual respect became a desire to control. A desire to mitigate risks. He changed slowly. He grew colder towards me. He started testing me, testing my loyalty to him. And being young and naive to the subtleties of human interaction, blinded by my desire to impress him like I impressed everybody else, with how quiet and good at killing I was, I rolled over for him. 

God, I hate that. All of it. I hate that Adam abused me and I hate that I let him. I hate that there’s no word for it other than “abuse”. 

In my first year as a bounty hunter, a good chunk of the money I made between the big Federation jobs came from offing people who beat their spouses. It’s never the spouse that puts out the contract; it’s friends or family, neighbors or just concerned passersby. The victims would come to their abusers’ defense more often than not, and after a handful of those jobs, it hit me how messy it all was, how rarely killing the abuser improved the situation and how dangerous it could be for the victim if I turned the abuser in and they made bail, or were acquitted, or weren’t even charged, which was often the case. It was a hassle, and there are people better equipped to deal with that kinda shit than I was, so I stopped taking those jobs. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. That it’s not because I was disgusted with the victims.

“Disgusted” is the wrong word. I didn’t blame them. I pitied them, which was worse. I hated being pitied, still do, but I couldn’t help it. Their abusers changed something fundamental about them, regardless of whether or not the abuse was physical. They were tangled in this net of doubt and self-loathing, immobile. Neutralized. It trapped them in an environment where the air had turned to poison and hurt them so deeply that they weren’t sure they even wanted to leave. 

That is what Adam Malkovich did to me, and it makes me sick. It makes me sick to think that if people knew, they would look at me the way I looked at those women -- it was mostly women, but there were exceptions -- clinging to the thing that was killing them because it was the only warmth they could find.  

It makes me sick that I let him hurt me like that for years. 

 

Don’t. Don’t stop me. I need to say this. I know it’s bad, but it’s in me and I need it out.

Okay?

Okay.

 

I was weak. 

 

I should have seen what was happening before it was too late. I should have left before it got as bad as it did. 

I shouldn’t have come back to him.

 

I never told you about that, did I?

I guess not. It’s only been about eight months. 

Feels like longer. 

When did I come see you last? It must’ve been after everything with the baby. That shook me up more than I was willing to admit. Made me vulnerable.

Made me weak.

I know, I know. Sorry. 

I swear, I’m not always like this. I actually have my shit together probably ninety percent of the time. It’s just that I can let myself be a wreck with you for a little bit. I always could, but especially now ‘cause it’s like, what do you care? You’re dead.

 

You’re dead.

 

I’m weak. I am. If I wasn’t, if I were as strong as you think I am, I wouldn’t still be doing this, coming back to K-2L, kneeling in front of your grave and pouring my guts out to nothing and no one. I would have been the one to care for Mia after you died. I would have asked you to marry me before it was too late. 

If I were as strong as you think I am, we’d be living in a house we built together somewhere in the little sliver of this rock that’s still forested. Mia would be fretting about school or adopting sick animals, because I swear, she’s  _ so much _ like you. We’d visit your mom in the summer and my parents in the winter. Old Bird would show up every few months without notice. He’d find any excuse to come see his granddaughter, and we’d eventually give in and let him live with us. He would spoil her rotten, and she probably wouldn’t appreciate it because she needs rules to break, like me, so they’d butt heads the way he and I used to, but every night, he’d read to her in that deep, friendly baritone of his and she’d fall asleep nestled in his feathers. 

 

But I’m not. 

I’m not a defender. I’m not the Hatchling. I’m not a hero.

I’m a shell. I’m all scar tissue: hard and durable and numb. 

 

But that’s why you liked me, isn’t it?

 

I should go. It’s late and I’m a little wasted. I don’t have a lot else to say other than I miss you and I’m always thinking about you. I know that’s not healthy either but I’m doing my best, stripping away the bad parts and building a better Samus Aran.

The other day I visited Madison on Valencia G-22. She and Henry are great people and even better parents. You’ll be happy to know that Maddy’s still sober and Henry’s still a huge nerd. We stayed up past midnight just talking and remembering. And of course, before I left this morning, I got to see Mia. We talked. Not a lot, but enough. She wants to be a social worker or a therapist, and help out people like Maddy. Or me. 

Pam, you would be so proud of her. I know I am. 

 

Ah, man. You got me to cry. 

 

It’s kinda nice.

 

Alright. I’m gone. I love you, Pam. 

And thank you.

  
  
  



End file.
